Boston Duck Tours, Boston

Boston is known as the gateway to New England, and we were acutely aware that despite having flown there twice previously, our knowledge of the city was limited to the network of roads and tunnels which lead out of Logan Airport and into the outer reaches of Massachusetts and beyond.This time, finding ourselves with half a day to spare before driving northwards to Maine, we decided to do our best to see as much as we could in the short space of time ...
...tickets at the specially designated Boston DUCK Tours booth, located a short distance from the huge Barnes & Noble bookshop. Despite the fact that it had been raining all morning, it soon became apparent from the length of the queues that the tours were extremely popular, and we discovered that we had a two hour wait before beginning our tour. It was fortunate that we had arrived shortly after 10 o'clock, or clearly, the wait would have been considerably ... more

Boston is known as the gateway to New England, and we were acutely aware that despite having flown there twice previously, our knowledge of the city was limited to the network of roads and tunnels which lead out of Logan Airport and into the outer reaches of Massachusetts and beyond.This time, finding ourselves with half a day to spare before driving northwards to Maine, we decided to do our best to see as much as we could in the short space of time available to us. The Boston DUCK Tour promised to show us just about all the city's famous landmarks in a little over an hour, so we decided to take the plunge. Literally, as we were later to discover.

We made our way to the Prudential Centre, home to one of New England's premier indoor shopping precincts, where we bought our tickets at the specially designated Boston DUCK Tours booth, located a short distance from the huge Barnes & Noble bookshop. Despite the fact that it had been raining all morning, it soon became apparent from the length of the queues that the tours were extremely popular, and we discovered that we had a two hour wait before beginning our tour. It was fortunate that we had arrived shortly after 10 o'clock, or clearly, the wait would have been considerably longer.

The tickets were priced at $26 for adults and $17 for children, which meant a total outlay for the four of us of just over $90 including taxes, or around £48. The very helpful young man at the counter advised us to present ourselves at the departure point at least thirty minutes before our scheduled tour, since although our tickets guaranteed us places on the tour, the seating choices were determined strictly on a first-come-first-served basis. "Just turn left outta here, ma'am and they're about a block ahead - you'll walk straight into 'em", he told us cheerfully.

He was right - you couldn't miss the gaudily-painted, odd-looking vehicles lined up along the sidewalk, and he was right too, about the queuing system, which was being organised in almost military fashion. We didn't have the heart to tell them that instructing the British in the art of queuing is equivalent to showing one's grandmother how to suck eggs, and so we took our places obediently in our designated waiting area.

At this point, I ought to explain what a Boston DUCK is. During the Second World War, engineers designed and built an amphibious vehicle, being half-truck and half-boat, which was to play a crucial role in a number of allied operations, including the D-Day landings. The vehicles were codenamed DUKW, hence the name DUCK Tours. Nowadays, these renovated and brightly-painted vessels, going by such equally colourful names as Beantown Betty and Kenmore Karla, among others, are utilised to transport armies of tourists around the busy streets of Boston.

As we waited for our turn to board, a fur-clad gentleman sporting an impressive pair of horns appeared, and introduced himself to the group already aboard a waiting DUCK as Sven the Viking. Now, before you run away with the notion that the former England coach has secured himself a new post, let me clarify that this particular Sven is one of the Con-DUCK-tors, the often eccentrically-dressed guides whose job it is to navigate these cumbersome beasts through Boston's heavy traffic, and at the same time, attempt to educate scores of ignorant tourists on the history of the city.

Rather disappointingly, Sven's group departed and we were directed to a somewhat less attractive, chocolate brown coloured vessel called Molly Molasses. Our Con-DUCK-tor was called Rosie the Riveter, the name alluding to the period during the Second World War when the women of Boston were summoned to work in the steel industry while their menfolk were otherwise engaged in fighting for their country. Although not perhaps as colourful and large-as-life a character as her Scandinavian colleague, Rosie turned out to be no slouch in either the information or entertainment stakes, and might herself have proved a considerable asset to the US military, if only to talk the enemy into submission.

Rosie began by asking us where we were from, and we learned that Molly was to play hostess to guests from such far corners of the earth as Denver, Palestine and of course, England. Thankfully, there were no visitors from the cities formerly known as Peking and Bombay, or I fear Rosie's duck-related comments may well have sparked an international incident. It was bad enough, that when we told her we were British, she yelled at us, a little worryingly, "Okay, we'll deal with you guys later!" We glanced nervously at the lifejackets stowed in the racks above our heads and wondered what she had in mind.

As we began our tour, Rosie instructed us that if any passers-by were to stare at us or dare to pass comment, we were to 'quack' at them in loud tones, and after putting us through a few practice drills, she declared our quacking to be awesome. Evidently we had passed the initiation test with flying colours. So, throwing off any inhibitions we had left at this stage, we proceeded to quack our way through Boston's streets in an unseemly fashion, past the State House with its impressive golden dome and then alongside Boston Common and Public Gardens, a peaceful oasis in an otherwise bustling city centre, complete with its diverse assortment of strolling tourists, lunching office-workers and comatose gentlemen of the street, fingers wrapped possessively around empty liquor bottles.

It's often recommended that you explore Boston on foot, and in hindsight, having experienced this peculiar mode of transport, it isn't difficult to see why. Even Boston's legions of taxi-drivers, not averse to the occasional bout of road-rage, were no match for the intrepid Rosie, who performed the miraculous feat of guiding our DUCK through the traffic-choked streets, seemingly with her back to the oncoming road for a large part of the journey.

Throughout the trip, Rosie regaled us with countless stories, some undoubtedly taller than others, about some of Boston's famous citizens and heroes, both past and present, including John F Kennedy, The Boston Redsox, John Hancock and Paul Revere, who famously gave the warning "The British are coming!", back in 1775. Rosie hailed not from Boston in fact, but from Maine; however, there was no doubt that she knew her Bostonian history, and as we quacked our way past Copley Square, Beacon Hill and the Old North Church, Rosie filled us in on all the necessary historical details, pointing out interesting pieces of architecture en-route.

There was the spectacularly contrasting sight of the ornate Trinity Church, reflected in the glass walls of its neighbour, the John Hancock Tower, whose architects were said to have acknowledged that they could never hope to compete with the beauty and elegance of the surrounding structures, and so decided to pay them the compliment of reflecting them in the walls of the new building. Rosie brought Molly to a halt at this point, and at the given signal, we quacked and flapped our wings furiously at our own reflections, in much the same way as humans do upon catching sight of their images on CCTV screens. (By this time, we had become quite anatine in both outlook and behaviour, ceasing for a short time to regard ourselves as belonging to the human race.)

We passed the site of the 'Big Dig', the locals' affectionate nickname for Boston's ambitious and lengthy construction project, designed to relieve the city's traffic congestion problems by replacing the six-lane elevated Central Artery highway with a series of underground tunnels and expressways. Acres of public parks have been created as a result of the project and plans are under way for a world-class skating arena to be built on part of the site of the old highway.

Then it was time for us to be led like the proverbial ducks to water. Rosie expertly disengaged Molly's wheels and switched on the rear propeller, before gaining speed and hurtling down the ramp into the chilly waters of the Charles River. "Quack, quack, quack, quack!" we squawked like mad things, roughly translated as "The British are Coming!" in our case, perhaps. In we plunged, on a wing and considerably more than one prayer, those unwisely having chosen window-seats receiving an uncomfortably cool spray, courtesy of the Charles.

As duck-ponds go, this one was a good size, although it wasn't nearly as large as the one we'd flown across the previous day; nevertheless, there was an anxious moment when Rosie promptly abandoned the helm and sat herself in the dumper seat, inviting each of the children on board to take a turn at the wheel. I made a mental note of which lifejacket to bag, should the need arise.

After a good deal of ungainly flapping around in the Charles River, Rosie assumed her rightful position at the wheel and guided us safely back to dry land, rendering us none the worse for our little paddle. Rosie pointed out more famous landmarks, such as the Bunker Hill Monument, built to commemorate the battle of the same name, and we saw the USS Constitution, the world's oldest commissioned warship still afloat. Then it was on to Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, before passing the Bull and Finch pub, the inspiration for the TV comedy series, Cheers.

Nearing the end of our tour, we turned into the exclusive Newbury Street, home to many fine establishments including Brookes Brothers, and where there are said to be seven beauty salons on each block, with, it seemed, Starbucks coming a close second. Newbury Street is without doubt, a quack-free zone, although Rosie couldn't resist wondering whether, if the doorman of the Ritz-Carlton hotel were to quack at us, would that make him a 'Ritz Quacker'? The DUCKS might have stayed very firmly on the ground that day, but the puns were certainly flying thick and fast.

As well as knowing her stuff on Boston, Rosie's other specialist subject was food, and she told us where to find the best clam chowder, the tastiest New England stews, and the finest ice-cream in Boston, in addition to providing some invaluable tips on how to choose the meatiest lobster. We saw the famous Golden Teapot, inspired by the Boston Tea Party, which for years hung above a tearoom, which in turn, ironically, is now the site of yet another branch of Starbucks.

Finally, we arrived back at the Prudential Centre, where our tour had begun 80 minutes earlier, and we all agreed that it had been both an unusual and entertaining way to see Boston. We'd learned quite a bit and the children hadn't once asked "Are we nearly there yet?" We'd been there, seen it and whilst not having achieved t-shirt status perhaps, the trip had certainly whetted our appetite (and wetted much more) for an extended stay some time in the future. We were happy enough to part with another twenty ducks - sorry, bucks - for the obligatory souvenir copy of the photograph we'd had taken prior to boarding our DUCK,and so it was, with our wallets lighter than feathers, that we waddled off in search of the nearest Starbucks. The lobster would have to wait.

 

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